


Learning What the Prostate is For

by olly_octopus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is slow to catch on, Crowley’s poor Bentley, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humour, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, a fun and spicy adventure for us all, and a slut, hell yeah babey we on some good historical shit, i am deeply ashamed of it and would not like to be remembered like this, i could be wrong but if you correct me i will be very upset indeed, i think i am hilarious, ill fight em, katie if you are reading these tags please do not open this fic, listen, the things it has seen, whaaaaattt who said that, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24544603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olly_octopus/pseuds/olly_octopus
Summary: “Humans,” Crawley states at last, like it’s the beginning of a campaign speech. “Humans, eh? Can only be motivated to even continue their own race if they get pleasure out of it. We don’t get any pleasure out of anything. Not allowed.”“Well. That’s not strictly true.”Crawley glances over at Aziraphale, a smile playing on his lips.“Oh? If that’s true, then you must’ve been a very bad angel indeed.”“What? No! Uh, I mean! I haven’t. I just… I just know that it’s possible. To, to make an effort, that is. No, I- I haven’t. I wouldn’t, in fact. Have you?”***Or, throughout history, with varying degrees of trust in each other, Aziraphale and Crowley discuss the uniquely human problem of sex.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 110





	Learning What the Prostate is For

**Author's Note:**

> i did research for this only when i felt like it. i do not, in fact, know nor give a shit when cross strapped sandals came into fashion and frankly i think life is too short to try and find out. again, i think i am hilarious and am not accepting a vibe check at this time thank u xxxx
> 
> this wasn’t proofread we die like men

“Of all the things,” says Crowley. “Of all the things, high and low, everything in the world and beyond; why do you suppose She put the prostate up the arse if it doesn’t actually help with reproduction?”

It is Eden.

The freshly born world was beautiful and blue not even five minutes ago but now the sky is heavy and dark with rain from the first thunderstorm and Aziraphale has known Crawley (a malicious and unholy demon) for about twenty minutes. He almost regrets it. He can’t quite bring himself to fully regret it however; conversation in Heaven is usually centred around organising files by colour gradient or perhaps even the thrilling subject of Gabriel’s poorly fitting sandal strap if he’s lucky. The lack of filter on this Evil Creature From Hell is somewhat refreshing.

“I don’t know,” says Aziraphale truthfully.  
“It’s just that, the women have the clitoris, right? And that has branches or some shit that encourages, er, the whole intercourse business, right? Cos it’s, well, it’s there! That’s like a great big sign going, ‘yes, here is the entrance! This is how we keep the human race alive! Enter at your own risk!’ Isn’t it?”  
“I suppose so.”  
Crawley nods in frustration and throws up his hands. “See! You get it. And then- and then, it’s like, the prostate is just… just there! Doing nothing! Waste of space!”

Aziraphale mulls this one over.  
“I suppose if women were to have penises it would be different.”  
“It would be different, yes. But they don’t, see? Ridiculous. Flaw in product design, that.”

Crawley and Aziraphale are silent for a little while, then. Aziraphale can almost hear the cogs whirring in Crawley’s brain. He has half a mind to tell him to think more quietly. 

“Unless,” Crawley adds at last. “Unless, there were to be a special upgrade.”  
“A special upgrade?”  
“Yeah. Like, maybe on the hundredth anniversary of humanity, they updated humans. Women could have a penis and a vagina. Two in one package deal.”  
“Wouldn’t it get a bit crowded?”  
Crawley shrugs. “The Lord is very good with Her miracles.”

They’re quiet again. 

The rain is beginning to get heavier, now, and it seems to Aziraphale that Crawley is none too happy with it. The demon draws slightly closer as thunder rumbles somewhere over the hills and Aziraphale finds with moderate surprise that he doesn’t mind it nearly as much as he would’ve a few minutes ago. Adam and Eve have vanished off somewhere into the near distance. Probably to find shelter from the storm. It occurs to Aziraphale suddenly that there is no real reason that he needs to be standing on this wall any more except to talk to Crawley. He doesn’t want to leave, though.

“Humans,” Crawley states at last, like it’s the beginning of a campaign speech. “Humans, eh? Can only be motivated to even continue their own race if they get pleasure out of it. We don’t get any pleasure out of anything. Not allowed.”  
“Well. That’s not strictly true.”  
Crawley glances over at Aziraphale, a smile playing on his lips.  
“Oh? If that’s true, then you must’ve been a very bad angel indeed.”  
“What? No! Uh, I mean! I haven’t. I just… I just know that it’s possible. To, to make an effort, that is. No, I- I haven’t. I wouldn’t, in fact. Have you?”

This last question comes out a little too insistent and urgent than Aziraphale means it to, and it brings him a small sense of satisfaction to see Crawley’s cheeks redden slightly.

“No. Stupid business if you ask me. Pointless, rather. Why would anyone want that sort of nasty thing hanging around? And for use on humans too, hah!”  
“I thought that was part of what you demons… well. Became demons for, wasn’t it? You wanted to, er, be with humans?”  
Crawley frowns.  
“Some did. Not me.”  
Aziraphale hesitates before speaking again. Really, he shouldn’t have spoken at all. “So- so why did you? Why did you fall?”

Crawley is silent. The rain seems to fall harder.

“Sorry,” says Aziraphale. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

Quiet, again.

“Nipples, too,” murmurs Crowley. “What’s the deal with the nipples? Pointless. Appalling idea in my opinion.”  
“Indeed,” replies Aziraphale. He exhales. “Indeed.”

***

Aziraphale’s presence is comforting, in a peculiar sort of way. Crowley had known him, known Yeshua as a friend— not the Great And Powerful Messiah that everyone is so keen to have a political opinion on now that he’s going to die. Now that everyone cares.

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale’s eyes rest on the hill. The air is heavier than it had been yesterday, and Crowley nods.  
“I don’t think it’s fair,” he says, and his voice cracks without his permission. “I know what they’re saying, why it had to be done, but it didn’t. It didn’t have to be done at all. I knew him; he was so good, such a good person and so funny... We got on, you know? We got on, because we knew the truth. We knew the selfishness of humanity except that I wanted to let them fight themselves until the bad ones were gone and he wanted to save them all. I suppose he got what he wanted in the end. Stupid.”

“It’s cruel,” agrees Aziraphale. Crowley has so much rage, just under the surface, and it’s taking almost everything he has not to tear down the cross himself and burn everyone watching to the ground. He’s past forgiveness, and he knows it- but he doesn’t think Yeshua would take it too kindly. Not when he’s sacrificed himself so that no one has to burn again.

Aziraphale moves in closer.

“It’s difficult,” he says, and Crowley hears the emotion behind the words. Aziraphale hadn’t known him, not in the way that Crowley had but he still knew of everything that had happened and that was going to happen once this was all over. “But it’s… it’s not for us to question.”

“I’m not questioning it,” says Crowley. “I know the truth, and I don’t need to question shit to know that nothing about this is fair.”

The crowd shout and mingle, throwing things and hurling insults at the men above them. Some are crying, some laughing, and chants of “King of Jews” rise like an anthem. Crowley is so angry he could cry. Eventually, he feels someone’s hand on his arm and he looks over to see Aziraphale gazing at him in concern.

“You’re okay?”

Crowley breathes, in and out. He lets the heat behind his eyes simmer into something docile and lukewarm. “I’m fine.”

“Let’s leave. We don't need to be here anymore.”  
Crowley doesn’t want to leave. He wants to see it through to the bitter and hard end— see the moment that the light leaves Yeshua’s eyes and feel the regret that washes over the crowd like a cold shower almost in the same moment. He wants them to hurt, and he wants revenge— but revenge is decidedly not on the table anymore.  
“Sure,” he says without emotion.

They turn, and walk.

Once the voices of the crowd are merely background noise and the only thing Crowley can hear anymore is the gravelly path crunch under his feet with every step, Aziraphale speaks.

“I hear they’re not too keen on multiple partners nowadays,” he says, like it’s part of a conversation they were just having. “Nowadays, they want two people in a marriage to keep themselves to themselves and not have intercourse with other people. I hear they’re quite harsh about it, too.”  
“Avoids all the trouble of jealousy, I suppose. Like all that trouble with Hannah and Peninnah. Awful business.”  
“Ah, yes- but I think that it can only cause more trouble than avoid it, you see.”

Crowley glances at the angel.  
“Cause trouble? It only causes trouble if someone breaks the rules that they agreed to themself. It’s not like law, how you get given rules for just existing and must follow them. Someone made the commitment, and then broke it on purpose. I hardly see how people are suddenly going to start bandying it about now that they can’t anymore.”

Aziraphale’s eyes seem to glitter under the midday sun.  
“True, true. But you see,” he continues meaningfully. “The funny thing about stopping someone from doing something- even if they didn’t want to do it in the first place- is sooner or later they’ll find that that’s the exact thing they’d like to do more than anything else in the world.”

The sun is very hot, and Crowley’s brain aches. The voices from the crowds are now but a breath on the nonexistent wind.

***

“So these are oysters,” muses Crowley. “Huh.”

“Do you like them?” Aziraphale asks, eyes glued to Crowley’s profile. Crowley sniffs and replaces the shell on the table.  
“They’re alright.”

Petronius’s place is cool and mainly shades of white and green; it’s reminiscent of Eden in a few ways and Aziraphale feels at home within the walls. They’ve got a lemon tree growing in the back visible through a window, and an ice cellar underneath the building and Aziraphale’s mind strays back to temptation and restraint every time he sees them. It’s an awfully, awfully prestigious and expensive place to be eating at but isn’t that what miracles are for? Besides. One’s first experience with oysters must be special, and these oysters are nothing short of exceptional.

He twists round so that he can get a better look at the angel sitting beside him.  
“They’re an aphrodisiac, aren’t they?”  
Aziraphale doesn’t meet Crowley’s eyes, which are— to his credit— pretty difficult to see through the dark glasses. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”  
“They are, though. One of yours, I assume. Repopulation and all that.”  
“Not guilty. I assumed they were yours? Lust and so on.”  
“Nope.” Crowley turns back to the table. “Guess the humans came up with ‘em all by themselves.”  
“I suppose they must have.”

The weather is beautiful this time of year, and the sun reflects off of the marble to give the distinct impression that they are somewhere else, the bright white somewhat nostalgic of heaven if nostalgic is the correct word. A cool breeze drifts in from outside, and Aziraphale can’t help but feel at peace.

“Wouldn’t work on us though, probably.”  
“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asks in confusion.  
“Aphrodisi-whatsits. For sex. Angels are sexless, aren’t they? And I know I can’t speak for everyone but there isn’t a lot going on as far as sex stuff for me, either. Must’ve missed that memo.”  
“Sexless… yes.” There’s a pause. Crowley twists around again. 

“That didn’t sound a very confident ‘yes’.”  
“Hmm.”  
“Oh, don’t tell me—!”  
“I just wanted to know! I wanted to know what all the fuss was about! Humans will happily have wars over it, and I wanted to see what was so special!”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale in something like impressed horror.

“Good grief; have you completely lost your mind?! What- what do your lot have to say about all of this?”  
Aziraphale shifts his feet guiltily. “Well. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, will it?”  
“You are shocking. You are absolutely shocking. I knew you were— well, I think the word is unconventional— but I didn’t think you would go this far. Even- even I haven’t—! I- I- well, well!”

He slumps down, looking defeated. A million thoughts seem to pass across his face in the space of only about five seconds before he straightens up again and turns accusatory sunglasses-covered eyes back on Aziraphale.

“How- how? How does one go about, well, changing body parts like that?”  
“It’s not that hard. It’s, it’s about manifestation, really? More about just convincing oneself that one has always had something there. Eventually you look down to find that you’re correct.”  
“Oh. Well, then. Huh.”

He’s quiet, and downs another oyster to fill the silence. Aziraphale gulps and avoids looking at him as he swallows. He only looks back when Crowley finally speaks again.

“Out of interest?”  
“Penis.”  
“Ah.”

Crowley, for the first time since Aziraphale has known him, seems to be at somewhat of a loss for words.

“Penis, eh? How’s that working out for you?”  
“It’s alright. Doesn’t bother me much if I don’t get too hung up on the actual logistics and all those fussy human inconveniences that come along with it. I’m just getting used to it at the moment, really; I've only actually had it for four months or so.”  
“Why not- er. The other. The female.”  
“Didn’t really suit me. I don’t quite have the bone structure.”  
“Fair enough.”

Crowley tips back his head and slides the last oyster down his throat. A sun-browned and youthful looking slave appears almost immediately at his side with a jug of wine in his hands. His eyes rest on the pair.  
“Did you enjoy the oysters?”  
“Very good, thank you.” Crowley glances back at Aziraphale again and shakes his head in disbelief. “Very good.”

They tip, because miracles are miracles and tables at Petronius’s place are very difficult to come across. Hours later, when Crowley is long gone and the oysters are merely a fond memory, Aziraphale’s mind is still consumed with lemon trees and making an effort.

***

“You’re catnip to these women, angel. It’s frankly embarrassing.”  
“Embarrassing? To whom? I’m not embarrassed. I think it’s flattering.”

The Globe Theatre, while mainly closed off from the public unless there’s a play on or something similar, is never closed to Crowley and Aziraphale. If William Shakespeare believed in superstition (which was almost a requirement in order to write suitable plays for King James- see ‘Macbeth’) he might’ve been more than a little aware that on the nights where neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are present there always seems to be significantly more things going wrong than on the nights than the ones where they are sitting comfortably close to the stage with enough snacks to get them through the performance. 

As it is, William Shakespeare is not a stupid man. He knows what’s best for him and the theatre if he keeps his mouth shut and allows the two men (who have never been any trouble to their credit) to just quietly sit through rehearsals in the stands and let them wander of their own free will. Actors’ coughs clear up; props reappear miraculously after he had thought they were lost for good and there is never any need for a line prompter in the wings. As far as he is concerned, Aziraphale and Crowley are welcome to watch as they please.

Everyone in this arrangement is happy enough, and so the show can go on.

At least, they were happy until now.

The theatre is not a place free from the influence of women— despite the notable lack of roles actually onstage— and a variety of seamstresses, wig-makers and theatrical costumiers are required in order to put on a show that at least has some authenticity as being set in Ancient Rome or medieval Scotland. 

Luckily for them, no books or reference pictures need to be bought as both men are veritable encyclopaedias regarding historical accuracy and very often Aziraphale is to be found patiently pointing out the mistakes in the way that Caesar's toga hangs or the crossed sandal straps that didn’t actually come into fashion until around 200 AD. Aziraphale, in his calm and understanding way, with his fair skin, blond cherub curls and baby blue eyes, is the most popular thing since honey cakes with these women, who fawn over him like he personally descended from Heaven (which, in their defence, is fair enough). 

However, to say Crowley is fucking livid is a fairly large understatement.

“She threw herself at you,” he spits.  
“She did nothing of the sort. Mary is a very sweet young lady who happens to be a little delusional as far as my affections go for her. I would not say that a young woman trying to get closer to someone she finds attractive is wrong, and I have since politely declined her offer of sexual relations and we are both on the same page. While I agree it seemed a little intense at the time, I am a being of love and humans are naturally comforted and soothed by my presence and I am used to people mistaking these feelings for attraction.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “Not a single thing about her offer to you was about feeling ‘soothed’, angel. From where I was standing, it seemed more like she was trying very hard to be arrested for public indecency.”

Mary had been… forthright in her advances, certainly. Those hands, so adept at sewing hems on skirts, certainly didn’t waste much time in trying to get to know Aziraphale much better than they already did. It was really quite a good job that Crowley had rounded the corner at just that second, muttering something about misplaced cauldrons and had had the good sense to knock out the young lady before things could get any more out of hand and then catch her as she tumbled out of Aziraphale’s lap.

“I am grateful to you, of course,” says Aziraphale. “But I wasn’t sure that knocking the poor girl out- whether violent or not- was entirely necessary.”  
“Oh, wasn’t it? Was she going to stop otherwise? She seemed just a little bit keen on you, from what I heard. What was it she was saying?”  
“Well, I can’t quite—“  
Crowley interrupts by tipping his head back and pitching up his voice in a mockery of her. “Oh, Aziraphale, harder, I’ll do anything if only you’d fuck me; make me your whore...” He lifts his head back up and raises one eyebrow at the angel. “Am I wrong?”

“Hhsgfh,” says Aziraphale.

“Besides,” says Crowley, averting his gaze from the angel. “I’ve come up with a solution to that design flaw problem we were chatting about.”  
“Oh yes? What is it?” Aziraphale adds, glad of a change of subject. His ruff is getting just a little bit too hot for him.  
“Men. Men shagging men. Built in penises, eh? No upgrade needed.”  
“Hhsgfh,” says Aziraphale again.

***

“So. That whole men shagging men thing didn’t turn out to be too popular, eh? Capital bloody offense nowadays. You’d think people would really be a lot more accepting, considering the sheer amount of sodomising fellows who made the world a lot easier to live in, be it through inventions or fashion or cultural revolutions. But some people just don’t know what’s best for them, I suppose.”

Victorian London is… something else. If there was ever a society of people that Gabriel would’ve fit right into, 1800s London might as well just claim him as their own. 

Not part of the agenda? Not what is considered the Perfect Victorian Gentleman or Lady? Enjoy living in the wilderness with the rest of the savages when we’ve kicked you out of polite society. Gay? Coloured? Disabled? Anything other than rich, white and male? Revolting. Please take a running jump into the Thames. All in all, it’s not a great place for anyone who doesn’t either have stricter morals than Uriel or the acting skills of most leading politicians. And Crowley, quite frankly, is beginning to be more than a little concerned about Aziraphale’s conduct of himself.

The river is as good as any place to talk, and the sky is blue above them as Crowley starts to speak.

“The rumour is, angel,” begins Crowley with great care and trepidation. “That you are galavanting around- as it were- in gentlemen’s clubs of the utmost discretion with all kinds of young men from all different walks of life. And, well. Carrying out activities that are not very widely approved of by people in this great city. And I just… I just want you to be more careful. Do you understand?”

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, but when he speaks it’s low and careful. “I understand what you are trying to say, my dear. But I really don’t see how it’s any of your business what I do behind closed doors. I am very good at being secretive, and so are my partners.”  
“Don’t you remember France? Being caught because you wanted some bloody crepes? Do you have any idea what they’ll do if they find you with- with whomever you happen to be sharing your bed with? For G- for goodness’ sake, they hanged John Smith and James Pratt not even weeks ago! It’s not safe.”

Aziraphale is beginning to look quite annoyed.

“Crowley, I can miracle myself out of any problem the humans try to throw at me. And if I can’t, all that’ll happen is I’ll be discorperated! Not ideal, I agree- but I won’t die unless thrown into hellfire! I’m perfectly safe.”  
“You’re not, though. Don’t you remember? The first time we spoke? Some of us Fell because we wanted to be with humans.” Crowley closed his eyes. “I don’t want to be the one to say this, but in the eyes of Gabriel and the others? Most of what you are doing is sinful. Despite the blessings and the good intentions.”

He stares determinedly into the water so that he doesn’t have to make eye contact with the angel who he knows damn well is staring him down with about two million all-seeing eyes.

“Angel, the only reason you are not down there with the rest of us is because no one was paying attention when you first began coveting food and knowledge: the two elements of the original sin! Imagine what’ll happen if they find out what else you’re coveting.”  
Aziraphale doesn’t answer him. Crowley raises his head to see the angel looking at him pensively, expression unreadable.

“It’s because I care about you,” he says. His voice cracks. “It’s only because I want you to be alright. Do you know that? It’s like you said. It’s exactly like you said. The one thing, the thing that you’re banned from being able to have? Soon you’ll find that you want it more than anything else in the world. You want- you want this. The men. The life in the lap of luxury. And I—“ he stops. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Just, just promise me you’ll be more careful in future.”

Aziraphale is very quiet. Then, “I promise.”

***

They’re in the car again.

Again, and again. They’re going in circles. It’s always, every time. 

What do you want? Anything, anything you want as long as it isn’t what you’re going to ask me for.  
Holy water. A break. Slower. Faster. I want you to get a damn grip on yourself, Crowley; I never see you anymore and I worry when I don’t know what’s happening to you.  
You can’t have it. Never. Always impossible, no matter what it is.  
Get out the car, door shut, stroll off into the night like it affects them a lot less than it really does. 

“We’re here again,” says Aziraphale quietly after a break in which it’s clear that Crowley isn’t going to be the one to speak first.  
“So we are.”

It’s exhausting. It truly is. There’s so much unsaid, so much that’s always left hanging in the air between them and it’s beginning to take up room in the backseat. Crowley’s going to ask him, he’s going to ask what it is that he wants this time. And Aziraphale won’t have a satisfying answer for him, because even he doesn’t know what he wants.

“What do you want this time? I can’t think of any church robberies that I want done. I can’t think of any favours I’ve done for you in Edinburgh recently. I can’t think of anything I’ve deliberately hidden from you.”  
“Can’t you?”

Silence, again.

It’s been haunting Aziraphale. It’s been haunting him in the way that Crowley offered him a ride, quiet and tender. Anywhere he wanted. In the way that his voice broke when he told him that he cared about him and he didn’t want any harm coming to him. He knows. He thinks, they both know. It’s a matter of who is going to be the one to break the glass, put their fist through the window first.

“You know.”  
“I- I think I know. I can’t be sure. You’ll have to tell me, if you want me to know it all. I don’t know anything for certain unless you say it first.” It sounds pathetic. Crowley’s hands tighten on the wheel.  
“You know something, angel? Sometimes I think about vanishing for perhaps no longer than five years, to a place where nobody knows me and learning everything, doing everything with everyone and getting all kinds of reputations and then just... come back with new talents as though I’d picked it up from nowhere. Natural, one might say. I think I’m terrified of not being perfect.” The ‘perfect for you’ goes unsaid, but it hangs in the air between them anyway.

It hangs, and it stays there. It doesn’t leave. The phrase, ‘perfect for you’ rings in Aziraphale’s ears as he turns his head to look at Crowley.

“You don’t need to be perfect,” he says. “You don’t need to be perfect. Not for me. I’ve never cared about perfection, and certainly not for you. Anyway,” he continues. “You are perfect. You already are.”

Crowley leans in, and kisses Aziraphale. It’s soft, and innocent at first but as Aziraphale kisses him back, hand sliding up the back of his neck to clench in his hair, it gets filthier and harder and Crowley can barely breathe for want.  
“Angel,” he whispers between kisses as Aziraphale pushes him gently back against the windows that seem to be miraculously much darker than when he had entered the car. “Please. Please. I’ll have anything... anything you want to give.” He nearly sobs when Aziraphale pulls back from his mouth.  
“Crowley... I can’t.”

He can. He wants to. They can both feel the raw energy crackling in the air, the power that has been created between them. It’s suffocating.  
“G- fuck, angel... you can’t just give me that and then nothing... I- I need more. I need you. I’ve needed you for a while, now.”

“You need to think about it,” says Aziraphale gently. “I’ve slept with people. You haven’t. This, this could be anything- a brief fancy, just wanting something more than you have- and I can’t do that. I don’t want to ruin what we have for a quick one in this car. Please think. Please think about it.”

He gets out of the car. The door shuts behind him. He strolls off into the night like the loss of Crowley’s mouth on him affects him a lot less than it does. Aziraphale never was one to break tradition.

***

Crowley’s hands were never going to be enough to replace Aziraphale’s mouth. 

It’s stupid, and inconvenient, and so frustratingly human that really it’s a wonder Crowley hadn’t attempted it before now. What he’s learned so far is that it’s messy, and difficult, and none of the men on the internet look like Aziraphale. He can’t even settle on a fantasy.

He’s meant to be good at this.

He’s meant to be good at the whole, lust and temptation and vile sins of the flesh that would make Michael throat-punch him if she ever found out, but instead he’s laying here like a helpless teenager, half spent in his own black skinny jeans with the lights dimmed all the way down and his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He, Anthony J Crowley, has saved the world. He drove a burning black Bentley down the middle of the M25 because he simply imagined that he wasn’t. He swapped bodies with the angel he’s been in love with for longer than currency has existed so that he could flounce into hellfire and scare the shit out of Gabriel. 

But he cannot, no matter how hard he tries, get himself to orgasm. It is quite easily the saddest thing that has happened in the history of the universe, and he would know.

Okay.

Okay.

Breathe, slowly. Slower than that. Don’t think about the telephone. Don’t think about the telephone. Don’t think, don’t think. Don’t do it.

It rings once, twice. Aziraphale picks up on the fourth.  
“Good evening, my dear. What seems to be the problem?”  
Crowley squeezes his eyes shut. “I- can you come over?”  
“What? Are you quite alright?”  
“Aziraphale.” He knows he must sound awful. The fog in his head is so dense he’s struggling to string together a sentence.

“My dear?”  
Crowley’s grip on the phone is so tight he’s afraid he’s going to crush it.  
“I thought,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “I thought about it, and thought, and thought, and thought. I thought so hard I thought my head might explode. I’ve thought about it every night for fifty fucking years, often with my fingers in my mouth. Often with every door locked and one hand holding your stupid tartan necktie against my nose and mouth so that I can pretend you’re there and so that my neighbours can’t hear the noises I’m making. I’ve thought it through so many times I can describe the process word for word, step for step, and if I have to think about it for one more second I’m going to go insane.”

Crowley pauses. He can hear Aziraphale’s breathing coming in quick, hard bursts on the other mind of the line.

“And now,” he says, slowly and clearly, holding the phone very close to his mouth. “I am so hard that it physically hurts and if I cannot have you here with me in the next five minutes I am going to have to bring my sorry arse over to yours and neither of us want that to happen. Capisce?”

The line goes dead.

Crowley drops the phone, and it lands with a clatter that’s far too loud in the empty flat. What the fuck was he thinking. Why would he do that? Aziraphale won’t come. Aziraphale is so much better, has so much more self control and why would he ever pay attention to—

There’s a knock on the door, and Crowley jerks up.  
“Who- who is it? Who’s there?”  
“It’s me, Aziraphale. Please let me in.”  
“You can just push the door. It’ll open.”

Aziraphale does so.

“Oh, Crowley,” he says, voice weighed down with sheer affection. “Look at you. Just look at you.”  
“I try not to,” replies the demon, half naked and feeling more filthy than he’s ever felt in his ten million or so year long existence. “Are you going to come over here or what?”

Aziraphale complies, again. He’s so gentle when he comes to kneel over Crowley, one hand lifting his face so that they can meet halfway. This kiss, the second one, fucks with Crowley’s head in a way that he’s not entirely sure is not a design flaw within itself. If there was ever a time that the phrase ‘religious ecstasy’ could be used without a trace of irony or sarcasm, he thinks that this could very well be that time.  
“Oh, Crowley,” repeats Aziraphale. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll be so good to you. You don’t have to worry about a thing anymore.”

Crowley gives himself into it, as easily as falling asleep. He learns many things that night.

He learns all about the many wild and wonderful things that can be done when it isn’t an awkward angle and the most beautiful angel to ever exist is willing to overlook your many, many flaws in favour of helping you scratch as many itches as you can fathom. He learns how deeply Aziraphale loves him, and the sheer ungodly amount of things he would do to make him believe it.

He learns that the prostate is a very valid and important part of the male anatomy, and should be neither underestimated nor seen as a design flaw after all.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 comment= 1 cuddle for crowley 
> 
> hope u enjoyed lads, ive got another up my sleeve for if this one does well so follow me for that good shit y’know


End file.
